


A Sunday Kind of Love

by dizzymisslizzie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 1950s, As Time Goes By - Freeform, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-22
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2017-12-03 05:24:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/694632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dizzymisslizzie/pseuds/dizzymisslizzie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Winchester men have a weakness for blondes, it seems - and Henry Winchester was no exception.</p>
<p>"...I want a Sunday kind of love,<br/>A love to last past Saturday night.<br/>I want to know it's more than love at first sight,<br/>I want a Sunday kind of love..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sunday Kind of Love

_Normal, Illinois - **1951**_

_**  
**_A comfortable sort of silence filled the Illinois State Library - not the deafening kind, but the kind that passed between lovers when nothing need be said. It was the kind of silence that wrapped around you in a sweet embrace, a still in the night that brought tranquility rather than a sense of unease. It was a silence never broken, not by brisk footfalls that echoed through rows and rows of bookcases that towered to the ceiling like redwood trees, nor the brisk crackle of page after page turned at the hands of an eager reader.

It was exactly the kind of silence that Henry loved the most. 

The telltale, musky perfume of leatherbound books and knowledge greeted him like an old friend as the young man stepped inside with a smile on his lips and a twinkle in his eye. His name was Henry Winchester - "A good, strong name," his father had told him once. "Named for your grandfather." A legacy, he'd said. Just one of the many Winchester legacies. It seemed that the Winchesters made a legacy out of everything in their lives. The names the carried, the friends, they kept, the clothes they wore - tradition was  _important_. The extent of it all seemed a bit frivilous, if he was being perfectly honest.

There was nothing wrong with tradition, in Henry's opinion. Nothing at all - in fact, quite the opposite. It was the overkill of it in his family that perplexed him rather than the concept itself. The Men of Letters, he could understand. He  _embraced_  it. It was his father's insistince that he get his hair cut at the barber their family had been doing business with for years, and the apparent rule against wearing your neckties in a full-windsor knot because of some fashion faux pas committed by his great-great grandfather that he didn't understand. 

There was a fine line between tradition and insanity - a line that his father skipped rope with on a daily basis.

For all the pressure that he seemed to shoulder, that tall, lankily limbed young man was exceptionally cheery, and his gait took on a clumbsy ease as he made his way further and further into the depths of the library. His hazel-eyed gaze was trained upwards, scanning the classification numbers tacked to the ends of each shelf, and his steps seemed to become more careless the more he became engrossed in his search. Henry, for all his focus in studies, had a horrible habit of getting lost in his own head until the world around him hardly existed. 

Despite his habit, there would always be a harsh run in with reality (or in most cases, a brick wall) that forced him back into rational thought, without fail. 

_"-Oh!"_

The mind rattling sensation of skull bashing against skull shot through Henry as he found himself unintentionally entagling and falling to the floor with a stranger. Books went flying and lay scattered all around them, and despite the ringing in his ears and the ache in his head, he peeled himself up off the scratchy carpeting and stumbled hastily to his feet, muttering half-formed apologies under his breath. The world slowly began coming back into focus as he held onto the edge of a bookshelf for support, listening to the decidedly feminine groans from the other person involved in his little... tumble. 

Those mutters turned into stutters the moment Henry finally got a good glimpse of the stranger as she clambered to her feet. She was petite, with round, rosy cheeks, full lips painted red, and strawberry blonde curls that had fallen from where they'd been pinned out of her eyes. An embarrassed flush rose in his cheeks, and after a good moment of gawking, he dropped to his knees and hurriedly began to grab for books that had been scattered about the floor. 

"Please accept my- my sincerest apologies, miss," he stammered out, cursing himself inwardly for being so  _daft_. The woman across from him sat on the floor for more than a moment, blinking up at the ceiling blindly until her vision sorted itself out and she regained her bearings. One of her hands was lifted to her forehead, fingertips pressed against her temples and a wince twisting her features. "I wasn't paying any attention-" 

Her eyes fluttered open, and she turned to him - and she _smiled_ at him - and all rational thought was erased completely from Henry's mind.

"Here, let me help with that." Her eyes met his, blue-green in color and filled with an intelligent light. Before he knew it, she too was cleaning up the mess - the mess he'd created in the first place. 

"I'm the one who knocked into you, miss - I ought to be cleaning it up myself."

"Yes, well, they're my books," the blonde woman quipped, eyebrows raised and a smirk playing at her lips. "Now, are you going to let me help, or not?" 

After a moment of silence on Henry's parts, his movements slowed, a long-fingered hand scratching nervously at the back of his neck. He watched as she gathered up book after book, sorting them into a neat little pile one by one. What did you say in these sorts of situations after you make your apologies? He didn't feel right leaving it at a simple 'I'm sorry', not in the slightest - part of it had to do with the fact that she was a beautiful woman with wonderful taste in literature from what he'd seen in his hurry to gather up her books for her - Emily Dickinson, Shakespeare, Oscar Wilde, Mark Twain - and in theory, he thought himself to be quite the charmer. It ought to have been easy for him to ask her out to the drive in, or for dinner - but when faced with the real thing, he clammed up and wrung his hands and stumbled over his words like a boy on his very first date. 

Before he knew it, she was climbing back to her feet - a pang of panic shot through him when he realized that his chance to get to know this beautiful girl was already slipping through his fingers like smoke. He thought on what to say as fast as he possibly could and clambered to his feet, extending an arm as if to physically stop her from walking away, but never daring to actually touch her. It was almost as though he feared that she'd shatter like a porcelain doll if he got too close. 

Those eyes of hers peeked out from behind the towering stack of books she now held in her arms, waiting for him to say something. Her gaze occasionally drifted to the hand that seemed to be frozen in mid-air above the slope of her shoulder, only to meet his eyes once again. _Damn it, Henry, say something._

_Anything._

"My name is Henry-" he blurted out, the first full-formed thought to come to his mind and the only thing he could think of to say that wouldn't make him sound like an absolute fool. Of course, not making a fool of himself was out of the question, because once he realized just what he'd said, he began berating himself mentally for being such an idiot. 

So much for charming. 

His cheeks flushed a deeper red in embarrassment, and his heart pounded like a drum in his chest as he awaited some sort of response- any response at all- from the woman who stood before him. He was sure he'd killed his chances of making a good impression with her completely. Moments felt like hours until the corners of her mouth began to pull upwards into a smile. A laugh even bubbled from her, light and airy and decidedly pleasant. 

"Well, it's - a pleasure to meet you, Henry," she responded happily, and proceeded to deposit her armful of books onto the library table before extending a hand towards him. Henry took it, and hesitated for a brief moment before giving it a firm, gentle shake. Her smile seemed to be contagious, because before he knew what hit him, his features were brightening as a sheepish smile crept its way into his expression. "I'm Molly. Molly Umfress."

"Winchester," he added. 

Molly hummed her approval and scooped the pile of books back into her arms. "Well, Henry _Winchester,_ " she began, slipping in a wink. "This has certainly been... exciting, but I really ought to be going-"

"-Wait." Henry took a step forward, eyes widened, his expression somewhere between hopeful and scared silly. "I really am sorry about... all of this." Vaguely, he waved his arms around, drawing a breath of a laugh from her. "Let me buy you a coffee, as an apology. I'd be honored - _really._ "

"Honored?" Another laugh escaped her, and Molly once again placed her books on a nearby table, resigning herself to his persistance. "How could a gal say no to that? Alright - but only because you suggested it _so_ nicely." 

Butterflies swirled in his stomach, and he half expected to wake up at any moment when he extended his arm towards her and she took it with a touch gentle as only a woman could manage. Was he really that charming? Bemused, he shook his head, and started towards the library doors. Dumb luck, that's what it was. Dumb luck, and chance. 

He'd never been more thankful for it in his life. 


End file.
